


Proses

by MurmyWormy



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Identity, Letters, Prose Poem, Purple Prose, Self Expression, self - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:46:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27240664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MurmyWormy/pseuds/MurmyWormy
Summary: Poems and Prose and stuff I write. Some are about me, some are inspired by the people I love and care about, some even by the people I hate. Sometimes, they're about the life that happens.





	1. Unempty

"You are empty." The man said behind the screen. "Without religion you are empty. The secularists, the atheists. We can't take our material possessions with us, so they have nothing when they die, and they know it." 

I tightened my hand on my scarf, wishing i could trade them for ruby slippers. He was a liar. I knew that. I could see the lies on his face. His stupid face and beard. I saw the eyes of my mother and father, the way they believed in a way that made me angrier than sad. He was someone that I couldn't respect, didn't want to respect, all because of those words. 

We're not empty without religion. 

Do the things we love, the people we connect with the lives we touch? Are those not a part of us? Our tragedies, comedies, loves and losses, they are all with us regardless of and without religion. 

I am who I am not because a book told me so, or because I feared what would happen in the long run. I knew who I was. I lead a life based on empathy, compassion. These were the things that drove me. Connection drove me, hence not wanting to sever those connections drove me. These are the my lungs. My heart is my heart. I may have blood but can you deny what makes it beat? 

My life was never about my material possessions. That doesn't make me special. Believe it or not, I see more people who claim higher religion to care about their materials, than the ones who do not. I have met the kindest, selfless of atheists, and the worst of Catholics. 

The relationship we have on what's beyond, or who, is it worth if we try and try to attain to a perfection we reality can never reach? How do we expect a perfect life when we can't be a perfect self? When perfect is not real? 

My lungs are fire, they burn and they warm me. My breath is what keeps me alive, and gives me strength. I learned a long time ago that there is no such thing as the freeist will or the most determined fate. But the balance is not mine to control. It is no one's. Never a predestined map or a gps waiting. 

My heart is the life I bring, the thing I use and give the most for others who've had theirs stolen. It is a battery, a life of its own. My blood is rich, and my blood is priceless. it is my blood. 

Every hair I grow is my own every cut, scrape, scar and scale all come from a pain within me, and around me. Every vein is a stitch, by stitch, by stitch of who I am, who I was and where I am going, who I am going to be. 

I am not empty because you say I am.   
Love is not from a book you tell me makes me whole. 

You speak in absolutes: all or nothing, whole or empty. 

But I am my lungs, fire and life; my heart, charged and resilient; my blood, rich and priceless. I am my hair, my proof of generations; my scars, my resilience and my crags of life. I am my Veins: stitch, by stitch, by stitch. 

These will be with me when I die; they will live forever. 

I am not empty.


	2. Strangers

Do people wearily in life, and in love know they’re being watched? Weary, dreary, and a lot of people, it’s like they’re not us? They don’t smile laugh cry and die inside? Where does the world turn and the screens spur. 

At any age of our lives we even know everything or nothing, the greatest or nothing. Will like dancing in the rain without a care in the bay beautiful? Beautiful again? First time?

When there’s a beautiful girl, there’s a story about her. And air of mystery romance even. Where is the rest for the ugly, wicked, and cruelest of us all. Where do the lies we tell ourselves, the ones without others, and ones others tell of us, where do they bend, blur and bleed? 

Who are you stranger?

Where is my one beauty for you? Where do you go where do you travel in my eyes, my irises? 

Worried lambs bleat with every heartbeat. Where do we draw the lines, and where do the lines draw us?

Do they sketch portraits of us dancing in the rain? We are lovers go their separate ways? The real question is: 

Where am I when you see my face?


	3. Breathe

Breathe in 

I will eventually have to go home. I’ll eventually have to think about how to go, I thought in the shade. The fat against my lips conditioning them as I looked at the sky. 

I’ll eventually have to figure out where I’m going and eventually there will be no more days with beautiful blue skies. Eventually there will be days where will be locked in our homes policed and caged. There will be days eventually where I’ll have to face the music about my job and my career, but my married life if it ever comes to it

There will be a time where the virus is gone and people can be who they need to be again where they will survive and thrive instead of choose. There will be days where I look back on the little secret I have right now as a taste of vanilla, and strawberry go down my throat. Eventually there will be a day I missed this taste miss this air. Miss the sky and the green around me.

Eventually I’ll I’ll have left are these little summer memories, my little treats for the school year begins. We’re all of the beauties I find today maybe things to look forward to eventually one of these days when I’m older or have somebody to love. Eventually my secrets will never be mine again. One day my secrets will belong to my lover and my children grandchildren I belong to my paper my pen my journals my notes. 

Eventually those days will come.

Breathe out

But not right now


	4. My love my lunar moon

My love my lunar moon   
You’re a woman braver than I   
Wear your scars with pride   
The one that lingers, grows with you and reminds me of the things I should be grateful for, and the people I have left 

Despite your heartless claims I feel your soul  
The passion that lays within you escapes on its own.  
Little black bird your wings not clipped   
Little black bird your wings on their way  
Little black bird trying to be whole  
Little black bird on her own 

I wrote of many things, and a girl like this eludes me. 

Where would I be, and where would she be - without her or me.


	5. The Truth About Girls

The truth about girls 

The truth is Love, I like love pretty things. I think every girl whether they want to admit it or not, wants pretty things, loves pretty things. 

But not necessarily pretty because it’s sparkly or pretty because of a price tag. but pretty something they love and admire, see the beauty in. So every girl wants pretty things. Don’t let any girl tell you otherwise. Given the choice of something simple vs something opulent, a girl would pick the latter. Most of the time anyway. 

And it’s not that. Boys want pretty girls like girls want pretty dolls. A pretty face doesn’t mean more than a kind soul most of the time but given the choice we would take both. Girls don’t want to settle. And then they’re pretty things with unforgivable prices, and then girls can choose whether to care or not.

Why am I even telling you all this. The truth is Love, you’ll never get to pick your pretty things. that pretty green bowl wasn’t something you picked out. Another did. And then in your life you have things that you certainly like, certainly things that appeal to you with your other senses but never truly something pretty


End file.
